The other day I bought my three year old a balloon from the dollar store. She seems to feel she is unable to function in society unless she obtains something, anything, when we go shopping. I’d like to say that I don’t spoil her, and I suppose I can even truthfully say there’s been instances where I told her “no, you can’t get something every time we go somewhere,” but the majority of the time I roll over and give in to her pleas for this or that. It’s usually something small. I have taught her the value of a dollar in a way she can understand, and when she brings a request to me she’ll utter, “is this too much monies Momma.” Even though she’s so little she surprisingly doesn’t get upset if I tell her the requested toy costs too much for Mommy to buy. I am amazed by her ability to easily be just as happy with a 25 cent rubber ball. In this sense I usually fall prey to her requests and surrender easily, throwing her choice of useless, plastic into the shopping cart.
And that’s how we came to inherit a mylar balloon that day. Something about the way they float in a helium high, confined in their metal prison; it just screams to a kid, “rescue me!”
Of all the many colors and designs available she ended up choosing one that read in pastels “Baby.” She can’t read after all. When I explained to her that it didn’t read Happy Birthday like she thought it did, she paused for only a moment, then immediately got behind the idea of carrying a balloon that said baby. She was pretty excited actually.
Imagine her attempts to keep her emotions contained when the store associate offered to top it off with more helium. All this for $1. We were both pretty pleased, but I didn’t find it necessary to excitedly run after the clerk to the helium tank like my child did.
The last think the clerk said as we exited the store was, “Hold on to it tight. It’s windy out there!”
As we stepped outside I thought of grabbing for my daughter’s new balloon. The thought of a dollar floating off into space got under my skin. My hands were full, though, with a baby and bags, so I repeated, “Hold on to it tight!”
The baby balloon survived to our van. It tried in vain to float out the door as we loaded into car seats, and almost tasted sweet freedom once before I pushed it back inside.
As we got out at home I opened the sliding door on my daughter’s side of the vehicle and immediately noted the loose way the string was twined around her tiny hand. I pictured it floating away, and could almost hear her cries of distress as she watched it sail into oblivion. “Hold on tight!” I repeated, but couldn’t help myself from holding the string as well as I steered her towards the safety of the indoors.
The baby started to fuss thinking we had forgotten her, so I parked my balloon toting child onto the porch step and turned back to the van.
I halted for a moment, turning back to my daughter, and almost repeated again for her to hold her helium treasure tight, tight, tight! But I didn’t. I stopped myself, and turned from her. I realized at that moment that if it was to sail away, if she hadn’t heard my instruction and let it sink in, then it needed to go. She would watch it float farther and farther away, and then she would see.
Parenting is like that. It’s moments of letting go and letting things be. Stepping back, though you fear the consequences, and letting a little child learn what they must.
You could almost say there’s two types of parenting. There’s the parents that hold the balloon so their kid won’t lose it, and then there’s the ones who instruct them to hold on tight, and step back.
The first child will never lose their balloon, as long as there’s always someone there that is. If they’re ever alone, it will be lost quickly.
The second child, nine times out of ten, will watch in tears as their precious balloon floats away. But only once. The next time, they will hold tight.
Perhaps in today’s world there’s too many parents holding their child’s balloon, and in doing so they are taking away valuable lessons to be learned, lessons of responsibility, lessons of loss.
I also have a baby in the home. She loves when I tip her backwards. Something about the feeling of falling backwards is exhilarating to her. But I had always been there to catch her.
Recently she started throwing herself backwards when not in my arms! Imagine my horror the first time she threw herself backwards onto the rug. She screamed and screamed. I held her and comforted her cries.
Then she did it again!
As much as it broke my Mommy heart to see her cry, I had no choice but to allow it. It was the only way she could learn, the only way she could understand that there’s not always someone there to catch her.
Have you ever wondered why God gives us free will? He knows everything, right? He knows what’s best for us. So why not just fix it where everything always works out? Why not make it where we never fall, or where our balloon never flies away?
What if God positioned our every move like a puppet master? Wouldn’t that make us like robots? We’d be worse than a baby for even they can learn.
What kind of love relationship would that be if you had no choice in the matter? I don’t think a very fulfilling one, do you?
Sometimes we will fall. Sometimes we will lose something we hold dear. We may not always understand why this must be, but I believe there is a reason. I believe our Father is developing us into the beautiful, wise person He has intended, cultivating us for an ultimate relationship with Him.
This isn’t to say that every bad thing God wills. We do live in an evil world of sin after all, but what He allows I believe is for a higher purpose.
Because He loves us He doesn’t grant our every whim.
Because He loves us, we must sometimes fall. It hurts Him also. Don’t forget that.
As much as we desire the best for our children, as much as we want them to grow, prosper, excel; so does our Father desire for us.
Watching the balloon float higher and higher, farther from our reach is not easy, but it is necessary.
Take heart today that all these things are working together for your good.
That is all π